Allen Ginsberg’s Style

Allen Ginsberg’s Shit
(In Poetic Prose, Allen Ginsberg’s style)


Before Allen Ginsberg died, he wrote some poetic prose on how much he had to shit, and he used the word shit—explicitly, and profoundly—; as he got old, and older, the worse this designed and kind of poetry got—that is to say, more descriptive and announcing. Disgusting isn’t it, as this poem is I’m sure. But he is considered by most of our western world literary geniuses, as one of the greatest poets of the 20th Century! How can this be? It doesn’t take much does it? Or is that a sign of the times. (I’m sure he’d be proud of this poem, although to be honest, I’m not).

No: 3089 (Morning of the 23rd of September, 2011) Dedicated to A.G. I don’t like belittling poets, but what we write we feed our public, our children, our nations as a whole. Much of Allen’s poetry is of this nature, so it’s no wonder why our world is going to hell, quicker than the life of a dandelion.

Outside the Attic Window

Poetic Prose


Outside the Attic Window


The Old Dirt Road (Minnesota)

1

Lifting my head up, to take a hold of my coffee cup, then taking a sip, thoughts likened to caterpillars start crawling over the top of my brainstem, my cerebellum, it’s not an unusual happening for me. It’s hard nowadays to hold onto thoughts—if I don’t write them down, they’re dead in only a few hours—that’s a quiver in the brain that says: by gosh, he’s still alive. I reach out for that thought, touch it, now it gears up it lunges towards me, terrified it leaps down to my teeth and jaw and stomach, and I got to write it down before it falls over on its face, that’s how it is when you get old. It is like a penguin trying to rearrange his or her flippers; it can’t be done—under normal conditions.
It is mid September now, evening in my apartment, the white curtains are akin to shadows, which comes from the deep darkness behind them, day’s insanity’s gone, I hope. A man in the evening doesn’t notice all that much, it’s normally—if not characteristically that is, time to settle down, it’s kind of when my impulses come to and through my mind too—producing my poetry (typically I say, not necessarily all the time, just more often than not—say:) such impulses come to my mind, come to be written down, come to be meditated on, see what trails those caterpillars left. Thoughts like the wind moves through my brain like branches growing everywhichway. Impulses, we have them: and they, these impulses, they want to live—they don’t want to be covered up, likened to what clouds do to the moon, especially in a poet, they even seem to have a will, don’t you agree? If you do, put them on the backs of the caterpillars. I heard one caterpillar say (once upon a time): “He’s sure taking a long time to die!” I forgive him, he’s long dead now. My brain waves are no longer coming out of his nostrils, he’s more comfortable in death than he was swimming around in my head, I do believe. I think he fell off some cliff, and better for it.

Anyhow, I have this sudden sensation; it is half an inch under my optical lobe; a funny, if not stringy place to be. A wide-eyed reflection: death is like the sound of thunder—I have heard it and felt it, seen it, even endured it within my life time; I have flown around the whole planet, and it comes down to this—I should say, it comes back to this, to an old dirt road and an old attic window (and perhaps alongside of that was a dream, the dream of a pauper; you see, without dreams we remain, but mutts to the world around us…). The starfish of my youth you could say, and how slowly and evenly does this reflection move—develop in: my head, my soul—the spirit that talks to me—you know, that second self—but this starfish has a body of a dinosaur. You see a starfish can be a glacier too. My mind sweeps low and swift over this glacier, now the lamp is lit:


2
Once upon a time there was a boy, he was no more than twelve years old, he wasn’t at the time real intelligent, but he had good insight, intuition, perhaps foresight too: also he had faith, more than a mustered seed, perchance more than a young man at his age needed; he often sat in his attic bedroom, sitting at the top of the stairs (often writing poetry, trying to figure out the stanza, and so forth), staring out the side window into his backyard—as if into nothingness. There was a big oak tree in front of the pantry, below him—the large oak tree, it extended up past his window, over the house like a giant umbrella—likened to a Titan guarding the house, and alongside the tree were two poles that concocted a clothesline, ropes extending from one end to the other, in rows, he’d often help his mother unravel the bed sheets, stretching them from one corner to the other, putting those wooden clothespins onto the ends of the sheets—snapping them onto the clothesline, and in the middle of the sheets, securing them so the wind wouldn’t blow them to kingdom-come. In the wintertime he’d run out to get those sheets, for his mother, they were like cardboard on the clothesline, nonetheless, it was a task assigned to him, and he’d do it wholeheartedly.
From that very same window, he’d watch the changing of the leaves on the trees—season to season, year after year, (autumn to him was the best of the seasons, or the best part of fall, which was his season, he was an October boy, born on the 7th); and over across his grandfather’s property (where he and his mother and brother lived together—kind of like an extended family type setting) and over across his grandfather’s property, was a large empty lot—once upon a time it had held three other houses, now long gone, perhaps a quarter century long gone—; now, this large space was dense with tall yellow and brown and thorny shrubbery it was hard to walk through, it was home to: rats and mince, quails, and a few pheasants, perhaps a snake or two, grasshoppers and ticks and all those sorts of insects.
After about five-years living there old man Brandt, who lived on the other side of the empty lot, and a few of the neighbourhood boys, got together and cleared out a section of the bared and unfilled lot for a baseball area—a diamond, as it is often referred to—and the young boy he helped by picking up rocks, and cutting those towering weeds with a sickle. That was the boy’s world, one big change in half a decade, but a good change.
The backyard extended to an old dirt road, which was used for buggies and wooden wagons of another period in time, perhaps twenty-five to thirty-five years prior to the boy’s moving into this neighbourhood, at ten years old, that would have been in 1957 or ’58, there about: horse driven, back in those 1920s, or earlier. Had you walked up this old dirt road—the very one he walked up pert near everyday during his formative years, the once wooden barns, that still stood solid and firm, reinforced with cemented foundations and stronger rafters within the last decade or so, were transformed into garages, for automobiles.
That of course was once upon a time, over a half century ago now. Last time the boy had walked that old dirt road—he wasn’t a boy anymore, he had grown into a middle-aged man—or there about, it hadn’t changed much, although the garages had made a new transformation, and the houses below the embankment, looking down were gone, as was his house; torn down a quarter a century before, to make a playground, and those old tall yellow and brown weeds that hid the rats and mice and all those other forms of hidden life, were gone.
He told his inner secret self, “Things keep changing…”
The old oak tree was gone from his backyard—roots and all, he noticed, said: “Yes,” in a whisper, in the crackling cool air the Indian summer, “yes, the very one I had gazed upon twenty-five years ago! The very one I climbed when grandpa was gone, as a kid.”
Funny he thought, contemplated, pondered on: ‘No kids around, not any houses for kids to come out of to be around either, nonetheless, a playground, how very mysterious…’
Now looking back, another fifteen years had passed, now the area had been converted into a kind of asphalt parking lot—where his house used to be which also consumed part of the playground (how they levelled it all out, he couldn’t figure out, it was surely costly, he deliberated) especially, eating up part of the playground for this hollow, if not valueless cause—and where old man Brandt’s house used to be, and two other houses on the opposite side of where his grandfather’s house used to be, where the fence was and the clotheslines were, all gone now just empty space, nothing filling it up, open to the sky and rain—and they had taken down the fence that made the playground look like a playground, now it looked like an empty park—better yet, an empty something, that I can’t find the word for—again I say, nothing filling it up: just grass, plain old green grass—that someone came to cut, that no one ever saw (and alongside that, the asphalt parking lot that no one seemingly ever parked in)—but still no homes and the children were still gone, and there was no more industry—of course that had left the area long ago; by gosh he said, “Who’s parking here?” it was empty. It was a hollow street, empty neighbourhood—no life to it.


3

“Things change every six months,” he told himself— “in styles and fads, and so forth, things like that. “Neighbourhoods, every half a decade or so; and people—well, we’re just part of the ongoing cycle. Luckily, we get to see some of these changes, as we change too—; caterpillars don’t get to see these changes, have these reflections. Perhaps they are luckier than us and better for it—I’m not sure, I just appreciate life, it’s a gift. I suppose all that will ever be left of me, left behind that is, that will bring a remembrance of me to someone—that will be the same, is that old dirt road, that in over sixty years of my lifetime, hasn’t changed one iota, that seems so familiar, it hasn’t changed in a hundred years I bet, and I suppose that will have to be my spokesman, my legacy. It will be the only thing left of me, that one can say: here, this path, he walked this path. Yes, I walked up it once upon a time, a long time ago, many times, and down it many times, it knows me, and I it, my soul, my youth, I can feel it under my heels—just thinking of it, and long after I’m gone it will still hold my memory.”


Poetic Prose No: 3067 (9-15-2011)

Seventeen Haiku’s for Living

Special Note on Poetic Imagery



1) Success

If you want to be
Successful, live in one place
And visit others!

No: 3090 (9-24-2011)


2) A Mayor

It’s hard to be a mayor,
to please or appease one and all
to make the right call!

For the sake of order
one must give to Cesar, the Lord
what belongs to each…

and to the people who are never
pleased…!

No: 3089 (9-24--2011) Dedicated to Mayor Dimas Aliaga Castro and
Cesar Augusto Merea Tello (Huancayo and Satipo, Perú)


3) For the Sake of Order

My children have convinced me,
to throw in my lot with the dust
(or theirs)…(?)

No: 3076 (9-18-2011)


4) For C.S.Z.

When you stopped loving
me, the moon turned black—; the world
sure is different now…

(…time changes everything!)

No: 3075(9-18-2011)



5) A Happy Poem

When I look at the:
moon, the sun, earth, darkness and
light—I see it is

…not doable to die!

No: 3074(9-18-2011)



6) Smelly Bones

Like to like, bat-seeking
mice; mice-seeking owls. Like to
like, everyone’s stuck in wet clay

forgetting that the
grave is not far away!
Walking backwards, with

…smelly bones.

No: 3077(9-18-2011)


7) Old Live Bones

When you’re old and
you stand upright and still in
the deep cold, your bones

…crystallise, harden like stone!


No: 3075 (9-18-2011)


8) Obama/Ollanta

Two peas in a pod
One moon, with a lot of clouds!
They move them as need be.

(Mostly for cover!)

No: 3073 (9-17-2011)


9) The Mutt

The mutt with no dreams
killed the Great Warrior King, who
had everything; how could

…this be? Perhaps he wasn’t looking?

No: 3074 (9-17-2011)



10) To the Dead

My mother’s dead,
but food still tastes good…never
did I think it would?

No: 3072 (9-17-2011)


11) Obama Says!

The American presidents
must triumph—over
forces of darkness…!

Obama says: “I didn’t
start this mess…”
(presidents can be merciless!)

While Embracing war in:
Iraq, Afganistan
(smiling for photographs)

No: 3078 (9-18-2011)

Note: we still have fifty thousand troops in Iraq, and 125,000 in Afganistan—but Obama claims the wars are over…where else in the world does another country have 175,000-troops shoulder to shoulder, in another man’s country? Perhaps he’s fearful if he calls the troops home, he may get from his own kind (from that circle of generals that surround him), what President JFK got (food for thought: contracts and industry also plays a big part in these ongoing wars. On the other hand, we are warring with Cuba for 40-years, and Obama again broke his promise to open the gates, and yet we are friends with Vietnam, China, and Russia, even buy oil from Chavez, who has proclaimed to be less than a friend—double standards for a great country).


12) Making-up

We fight all over lives
for what we’ve lost, lacked in
our formative years—

No: 3079 (9-19-2011)


13) A Child’s Will

The child’s will
has gotten stronger
in his adult years.

(Beware!)

No: 30780 (9-19-2011)



14) Old Man Smiling

The children’s eyes
stare upon the old
man smiling…?

No: 3081 (9-19-2011)


15) A Penguin’s Life

The Penguin parents say: “Come,
let us kiss now, and part.”
The Children say:

“We are glad with all
our heart!” and bow,
once and forever…

(For the gift of life and their sacrifice)

No: 3082 (9-19-2011)


16) The Dandelion


When I see a dandelion
declining on to its knees
in my garden…

I think of being
safely buried, and hurry
on forward to be

…all what I must be!


No: 3083 (9-19-2011)



17) Crow on the Branch


The Crow, like a branch
an a tree—waits, making only
a shadow: what

consoles him?
…ask the thief!

No: 3084 (9-19-2011)




† Special Note Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)

Poems: Islamic Form, Haiku, Poetic Prose (& Imagery)

The Beggar Boys of Huancayo

So many times this month I’ve felt the alienation
within the city’s lost children. Its normal, like the
the cry of a weeping penguin, who calls to another
over a lost and darkening sorrow.

In many of my poems I praised so much of the
culture, the fine elements and way of life, carried
out, in the Andean cities of Peru! It all has felt
right to me.

Every way of knowing, those lost children, beggars
in the parks, on the streets of Huancayo, for some
reason, society, government, home life, does not
allow them delight, they have to find it in the
fieriest love they can.


No: 3088 ((9-23-2011) (12:20 a.m.)) In English Only ; dedicated to Christian (who likes chicken); and Jose Luis, who became a business boy overnight, by selling candy; may the Lord be with them while down here on planet earth, no one else is. Huancayo, Peru.




Three New Closing Poems
Islamic Form



A Poem for “Who”

Let me tell the other story about my life.
Understand this, please! I wrote my first
Poem at age twelve, but the journey to get

Where I am today, Poet Laureate, seven times
Over, it took fifty-years. Although I still remember
The day when I wrote my first poem, “Who”

No: 30 87 (9-21-2011) In English Only

Thoughts Derived from
La Oroya’s Parade ((9-2011) (in English Only))

People are marching, moving big banners around on
The street, in La Oroya, and I am not there. Each week
A new parade, fiesta, in the Junin region.

I take taxi rides to many of these, such events.
You’ll see nothing but the backend of cars for miles.
Such events are never on time, they have no sense of time.

Sometimes I want to tie my arms tight, around me, firm.
And leave before I get there, but I just leave early.
Don’t think poets are saints, or have extraordinary

Patience. People like us, we weep behind trees.
We have taste for fame, and fondness for dead souls.
We like counting syllables, swallowed by the stars.

No: 3085 (9-19-2011); Note: La Oroya is a mining town in the mountain region of Junin (Peru)



The Way it is

The little boy throws rocks at the pigeons.
The pigeons shits all over everybody and thing.
The hawk rips the heads off the pigeons.

Everybody and thing, has come accustomed to malice.
Or is it, mayhem, for pleasures—? It’s hard to
Tell. Why do we push towards such desires?

The dandelion in the garden that is white
Today was yellow, the day before. She almost
Looks, old before her time—disgraceful, torn heart.

What can one flower say to another whom—on the
Face of it —died so early on (or is in the process)…?
Perhaps simply: “God gave us a taste of life?”

We all live so close to dying, malice.
We all have inherited it so long ago.
One teaspoon of each is enough for me.

We have two halves to our face, one dark, shadowy
The other bright colours; beneath them, resides
A dragonfly, buzzing back and forth soaked in onions…


No: 3086 (9-20-2011)

Poems to Ponder On

Abraham’s Flight


Like a bird with long wings,
the Lord God, came flying through the dust—
He had flown over the darkening waves.
He had flown around the planet,
a grip onto the hand of Abraham; now
they were back to where they had started.
There is a long pause.
It is complicated for Abraham to understand
why God didn’t slay or punish the many sinners
they had passed, and witnessed doing violence.
Abraham had voiced his opinion on the matter,
to give them harsh death,
leaving a tinge of a rattle in his throat,
each time his righteous anger came out.
God tells Abraham: “What has not yet come
to the surface, years that are still far-off—
you do not see, you are detached from the
good they might bring.”

No: 3119 (9-9-2011)


Old Fires

All those days we have lived
The world on Edge
You and I, all of us—
Loneliness to ashes;
It will all be forgotten.
We are all old fires,
Roots—we can’t
Even rub sunlight into.

NO: 3117 (10-6-2011)

Below the Planet’s
Waters


Reflections of hills; mountains
of mist below
What are they? The reds, browns,
that float?
Landmarks—perchance, long
forgotten…
Perhaps valiant stories!
Perhaps someone’s death—!

Blind, cloudy creatures, with
their spines turned up to us—
Crouched, smiling up at shadows
and the landscape below
. . .

How different their world is
from ours!
As I cling onto steel railings
above—as
they below (swim carefree about)
bored, waiting for a storm.


Notes: Written after reviewing the Art Sections of the magazine ‘Exploring Tosca’ ((summer issue, 2011, page 37) (Gail Weber, Editor)), thus, inspired by the work of Marcia Soderman, the painting named: “Contemplating Deep Waters” No: 2986/7-26-2011


The Syrian Bunker
(Triple Haiku)


Like a hawk in his
Nest—so resides a Syrian
Soldier, in

His bunker, in the
Golan Heights, readying for battle
Above the heads,

Of, men of war—; the
Bulls of Bashan, wait, and howl:
“What is sorrow for?”

Notes: On a visit to Israel, July of 2010, the author wet into the Bashan Valley (Golan Heights), once Syria, and explored the historic and notorious site, “Rephaim Circle” some five-thousand years old; in addition, he found himself beyond the valley, unexpectedly, by Syrian bunkers and minefield, those used during the war of 1967, between Syria and Israel. The Bulls of Bashan are the armies mentioned in the Bible that will encircle Israel in the latter days (as they did in 1967 and 1972, wars, to try and conquers Israel and will perhaps try again, such as: Egypt, Syria, Jordon, and perhaps Iran and Lebanon, and one of the new bulls, Russia).


The Winter Dark

As winter comes the trees darken
(unnoticed by human eyes, for a long time).
For eons this has happened—had taken place.

This brought on a kind of loneliness, despair—
(this new awareness)
for mankind.

Man said: “What’s the use…?”
Uneasily, building fires inside of winter caves—
(no longer living under winter stars).

Thus, he learned to live like the trees—I guess,
by dark, in the winter.

NO: 3116 (10-6-2011)


The Beaver (and the soul)


The Beaver lives deep inside its dam—
So, deep that it’s difficult for light to seep in
To pass from twig to branch to the tip
of his tail, to his eyes…
So many timbers packed on top of
One another, muffles the sound
of his voice…
That the language of the beaver is
Often misunderstood, and perhaps for
a moment, lost!
This is the hull of his wooden ship…
Liken to the hull of a man’s soul, when
it is
lost…!

No: 3106 (10-4-2011)


Legend of:
The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger


I wonder
If he was afraid of dying—found
Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete)
In what one day would become the
Village of Huacrapuquio—
But now,
All day long I’ve been walking among
Their dirt and stone streets,
Trying to keep still, silently
Listening,
To old residue—echoes that linger in
The shifting dust and sand—patiently I am
Gathering, the slow, the empty
Echoes of the past…

And of the secret shelter where this
Ancient tiger fell to his death
10,000 BC…
Fell to his earthly grave, until the day
The city dug up the road, to
Put in plumbing.

His frame tells me his short, but
Lively, life’s story—
He was young, strong, lean, but careless—
He’d leap at his pray, with those
Strong short hind legs; and with his
Long front arms—limbs that had
Paws like small boulders—and
Talons, sharp as giant thorns—
He’d mall his prey, then with his
Sabre-teeth, he’d put them to sleep!


No: 3105 (10-1-2011) While visiting the village of Huacrapuquio in 2007, eleven thousand feet up in the Andes, the Mayor of the village showed me the bones, and location where the ancient tiger was found, considered the only complete set of bones in the world, of such a tiger, and thus, the structure of the tiger, was amazingly different than expected by experts on this subject, and thereafter I drew a picture of the tiger from its remains. (See front Cover.)


The Rainy Season
(Summer in the Mantaro Valley)


Old men dream and rest more than they sleep—(that’s a fact)
especially during the rainy season in the valley…
It’s as if the sun gets drunk in summer—here, high up
in the Andes,
and all one gets, is cold light.

Ah! I want to turn it off!

My neighbour’s yard used to be cut and trimmed—
But now it’s just all weeds—, it’s as if, each rainy season,
he has a long hangover.

Everything’s bright and colourful, growing from the ground
up, here in the valley!

An old man is wobbling down the street, half drunk, kicking
stones, I can see him from the pantry window.
A young boy is scaling a railroad track, a trains whistle can be
heard, but he doesn’t look back, he kind of looks like me.
A bum is just waking up under some cardboard, along the
Mantaro Rio, and there’s a bird’s nest in a tree above
my grave
I’m still half asleep, but what a dream.


No: 3100 (9-29-2011)


House of the Falcon
((The Chanka in the Valley of Canipaco) (Colca, Peru))


Part One
The Ancient Chanka Warriors

House of the Falcon

Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from fifteen hundred years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco

The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us

Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.

Part Two
Uscovilca and Ancovilca

Canipaco Valley

The twin gods of the Chanka race, the founders, Uscovilca
And Ancovilca—: one inherited the teeth
Of the great lion, the other, the great thumbs of Goliath

And thereafter, the Chanka race never had had a whole
Day of peace, and thus built, Tamborhuanca (sanctuary)
Where one cry from the dying, contained a thousand more.

Part Three
House of Sorrows
Tamborhuanca—Colca

In time all things end, become shadows, hence, the
“House of the Falcon” became the “House of Sorrows”
The door that leads to Tamborhuanca, near Colca

Built eight-hundred years, now in the past—the sanctuary
Of the Chanka, now lies silent, with deadly gases…
A house roofed with stone and earth, caves and graves.

It’s too late to move now; their bones (blunt like dull pencil lead)
Can be found in the dark crevasses of this fortress like
Mound—this monstrous sanctuary, with cave-eyes everywhere!

Part one of the poems written on 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091; parts two and three (3092 and 3093,) written on 23rd of September).




El Tambo Spider (s)
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eons)


When it’s cold in El Tambo
the spiders know—
they crawl on my walls
along my window sills

Along the ridges and
under my bed—: creeping
little crawlers, making cobwebs…!

While I’m asleep, they swing
and pivot, fall and crawl,
on wires and strings, even
on my brow: bite me here
and there, especially on rainy
nights…

You’d be surprised how
much they know—
about my apartment, and its
five rooms…

Half blind, they prance about,
as if they owned the house—
bodies reddish brown, black and gray…
I think they are here to stay!



No: 1845 ((5-26-2007)(reedited, 10-3-2011))
(Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo)


Corn Picking in San Jeronimo
(Peru, in the Andes, the Mantaro Valley)


It is late June; I walk through the cornfield.
Light on the tops of the surrounding mountains,
Light, over my head, eaten by pigs’ teeth

I am learning; I walk through the cornfield
(the grove) with a bag: picking, ripping corn
off the tall stalks.

On the way home, coolness in the afternoon’s
sun, lowers its hands!

Pigs are out alongside of the thick adobe wall?
The mother has gone looking for her little ones.
What they drink and eat, people would not dare
to take in,

But nonetheless, sooner than later, we’ll put that
beast on our dinner table…!


No: 3107 (10-4-2011)



12:08 A.M., 2011
(… in Huancayo)

1.

At exactly 12:06 A.M.
I empty my bladder,
feeling the joy it brings.
Dogs barking outside,
a cool dampness sweeps around the curtain
(I can feel its sway…).

2

My bedroom is small
The lamplight is on, on the side of my dresser
(my side of the bed).
I turn it off, roll into bed
I can’t tell where—
My wife’s awake, turns to my side…;
outside, on a wet street, rain falling.

3

Bits of darkness surround me.
Car lights appear through the curtains
as streaks of light—
“What time is it?” asks my wife.
“12:08, I reply (wondering why?)
“Happy 64th Birthday,” she says with a kiss.

How different (I think) old age Birthdays
are becoming—seemingly secretive.

No 3118 (10-7-2011)


Summer Charms
(… in Huancayo)

I slept a few minutes ago.
I love the warm covers of the bed,
the heat from the small space heater next to me.
Had lunch with Adelmo Huamaní—this afternoon
spaghetti!
I’m growing old.

There is a spirit in a tree—it moves when it
thinks water or sun, or upon a soft touch;
that’s one of the great things in this world.
Years ago
I wouldn’t have said that, but God, like a
Strange Sea Creature, keeps teaching,
and I keep learning—
It is like the mountains surrounding Huancayo
keep drawing back into itself,
to make room for others.

Under the floor of my apartment I feel the
season changing beneath me—
without making a sound, the rain is coming.

No: 3114 (10-6-2011)



The Restaurant Owner
(… in Huancayo)

She kills her own livelihood
her precious secret,
her face holds one tone—
She shuts out those
nearest her (or those be in
opposition to…)!
Dying of arrogance and pride,
unaware she’s alive…;
in her own desert!
It’s no use, she won’t
listen,
she’s too far gone.

No: 3108 (10-5-2011)

Female Tramp
(in the Plaza de Arms ,Huancayo)

A female tramp stands in front of me
(in the Plaza de Arms)
Puckers her lips,
and tries to whisper something
(a woman of alms, a bigger).
Her mind haunted; my wife
givers her silver coin.
She has no front teeth.
As I lean back, on the wooden
bench, the sun floats
down, as she walks away;
turning around twice, to catch a
glimpse—she’s remembering
she’s a woman.

No: 3109 (10-5-2011)

Red Ants in Satipo
(Central Jungle of Peru)


I push; rise slightly, between the thick jungle foliage—
I do not want to alarm the large red ants
who are walking single file back and forth on the plant’s branch (in the Satipo Jungle)—carrying small to large loads
of petals.

I want to pick a piece of fruit off the branch—I try and a few
leap onto me—racing up my fingers, and beyond…they have
sharp teeth—

Then Rosa (my wife)—standing nearby—pulls me back, nearly cries, watching the red ants thrive … “Let it go!”
I let the fruit branch go, step back—she’s relieved—so am I.

No: 3111 (10-5-2011)

† Special Note on Poetic Imagery: The poet must find the voice inside the images, correlating to his emotions (feelings). Then he can produce the pure substance (the essence) of poetry (i.e., what makes a haven a haven? In the case of the small village of ‘the 9th of July’ in Peru, it is its images, but what are their images? One over powering image are the eucalyptus trees, you can’t escape them…)


A Worthwhile Poem

Let’s do this sort and sweet, so read this closely, a worthwhile poem: if the poem you are reading or about to read or have read (let’s say three times over—you got to give it a chance to absorb—be it poetic prose or metered, each can put you into a trance, if it: relaxes your diaphragm, your breathing, if it prepares you to journey (to connect dreams to reality and march toward them, or wish that you had), if it opens up the brain, affects you, brings to you some missing elements, fragments, long lost by the soul: then it is a worthwhile poem for you—: let yourself be the judge, all poems are not structured, or worded for ever mine, they are like, counselors, not ever counselor is made for ever client.

†

A Song to Creativeness

It is a joy to live in these great times,
with life at last grown to its utmost consciousness—
remolding the world to its fulfillment.
Happy be one of those who feel the thrill
and movement of this flow, whose
mind and hands are busy
with great works
of this day

with creative pageantry…


No: 3118 (10-8-2011)